


Bed of Roses

by muddy_peacock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:52:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muddy_peacock/pseuds/muddy_peacock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I heard Bon Jovi's Bed of Roses one day in work and this is the result. It didn't go where I thought it would, surprisingly.</p>
<p>It's a humble offering placed at the feet of ghuune who rocks my overflowing, Destiel-loving, heart-bursting world with the most awesome of words and images.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed of Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghuune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/gifts).



It's dim in the bar; the ghost of cigarette smoke from years gone by seems to linger in the air, and the small, golden wall sconces cast more shadows than light. He doesn't care, doesn't think there's much he wants to see for the rest of the night aside from a steady stream of beer bottles, maybe some whiskey chasers, and a bed. The many disparate scrapes, cuts, bruises and sprains that litter his body have become one almost overwhelming ache, indistinguishable from one another, although they have blurred somewhat with the application of alcohol. He groans, rubbing his hands roughly over his face, knowing that the smart move would be water, painkillers, and an early night; just at the moment, though, this battered banquette in this battered bar is about all his body can handle. It's been a long day. 

In the time it takes to open his eyes again, the slightly faded blonde has delivered his food and walked off to take the next table's order - it's not busy tonight at The Old Piano but she's already discovered that this is a man who really isn't interested in talking. She knows the type and she keeps moving albeit a little regretfully. Even in the dim light, she can see he's pretty; on a different night, she'd consider trying to find out what those fine cheekbones would look like lying against her pillows, but tonight is not that night. 

Food helps. Food always helps. Smart Sammy's already asleep back in their motel room, his gentle snoring attesting to the fact that he made it through today, even if he is a little beat up, but after showering and snacking, he called a rain check on the bar. Dean doesn't mind - it's good to have some alone time sometimes and the life they lead isn't exactly crammed with opportunities for personal space. 

As if on cue, his phone rings and - speak of the angel! - it's Cas, his voice laced with the undertone of panic that always occurs when he uses any sort of technology that isn't celestial. Dean pushes away the feeling of the percussion band currently marching across the front of his head and tries to focus on the words flowing into his ear. 

His friend is still searching for the answers to his Father's disappearance and all Dean can do is offer reassurance: the truth will out, and they will find the answer to the riddle even if it takes longer than they'd like. Cas sounds depressed and it's painful for Dean to hear it. He wishes there was something more concrete he could offer that would help, wishes there was some way that he could explain to his angel buddy that, no matter what, Cas always had Dean and Sam; that they were his family as much as the winged dicks in heaven, that they could get through anything as long as they had one another. He tells Cas that they'll be heading back towards the bunker tomorrow and he should come and hang out for a few days, relax. He doesn't hold out much hope for that happening when he ends the call.

He finishes the last bottle of beer, scrunches up the paper napkin, pays up at the bar and drags his sorry ass out the door onto the main street. Their beds for the night weren't that far from the bar he'd spotted on the way back this evening so for once, he'd decided to walk. He figured that after the fight earlier, it would be smart to stretch his muscles a little before bed even if he was verging on collapse. The fresh air might revive him, he'd thought, not reckoning - although he can't understand why not, now that he comes to think of it - on the beer and whiskey to fry him a little more.

It's late, well, actually, probably more like early by the time he makes it back to the motel's car park. He checks on his Baby, checking all the doors are locked and that no-one's parked too close to her, and then he leans against her side as he has so often before and looks skyward trying to spot any stars whose light might be strong enough to make it past the neon signs in the forecourt. There they are. He can see more if he turns his back to the flickering flouresence, and looks towards the outskirts of the town. 

Tomorrow, they'll leave. Sam'll find some case or another that'll divert them from the bunker on the way back, and Dean will have to forgo his sweet, sweet bed for another couple of nights but at least they'll be heading in the right direction. He never thought they would have a home like that, not really. He thought Sam might leave again, might want the life that both he and Dean would love for him to have, but the bunker is more than Dean ever expected. He has a robe on the back of his door, and slippers in his room, and a bed that remembers him. He is safe there: he can research, have his own space, keep his own vintage porn collection in a bedside drawer, and always have somewhere to come back to. It's a wonderful gift after a life of dubious bedclothes and grimy bathrooms, or even derelict houses and sleeping mats. He knows he can camp out anywhere but the bunker is the closest he's had to a home of his own since his mother died and his dad started hunting. Bobby tried, and did a real good job to be fair to him; Bobby's family, but this is something that Dean can really call his own. It's funny how a lot of life becomes bearable when you know you can go home to your own stuff at the end of a job. It's a good feeling and a good note to end the night. 

He opens their door, shucks off his boots and jacket, and is asleep within seconds of his head hitting the rather lumpy pillow.

*

Dean dreams. He dreams of falling...no, floating...gently downwards from a height. He is not afraid, feels perfectly safe as he descends towards he's not sure what. The air around him is skin temperature, and he can barely tell where he ends and the rest of the world begins. He is utterly at peace and, even in his dream, he finds that strange. There is no sense of impact but suddenly, it's not air beneath him anymore. 

His skin is enveloped in a silken flurry of rose petals that lap at him like waves on a beach. They surround him, swallow him, until he thinks he might drown in their softness and their gentle scent. He feels them on his neck, his feet, slipping inbetween his fingers and his toes, against the thinner skin inside his elbow, the back of his neck, and the base of his spine. They seem to be alive, moving under his shirt, swathing his skin in pink satin-y gentleness like a lover's kisses, and he lies, unmoving beneath their tender ministrations.

*

His alarm goes off at six, wrenching him from the weightless coccoon of his dreams, and he wonders if he could somehow slip back into sleep and find his way back to that rose-filled burrito of blissed-out-ness. Sam's bed's empty: his freakish early runs leave Dean feeling exhausted before he's even started his day. 

As much as he'd like to be able to lie in bed and drift on that gentle edge between waking and sleeping, years of habit kick in. John Winchester did not approve of lying in bed unless someone was at death's door, and so his son shoves back the covers and heads for the shower, hoping to recapture some of the effortless ease of his dream under the hot water. 

He's interruped midway by Sammy knocking on the bathroom door and yelling about not using all the water, and Dean mutters darkly under his breath - nothing good ever lasts long enough as far as he can see. He contemplates making his little brother wait but knows that the sooner they pack up and get moving, the sooner they'll be heading on their circuitous way back home. And that's his goal. When they get back to the bunker, he may even run himself a bath just so he can lie there until he's wrinkled like a prune in steaming water, might even use some of Sammy's girly bath salts because, girly or not, they smell great. Rallying at this thought, he turns off the shower, wraps himself in a towel, and heads towards the promise of coffee emanating from the styrofoam cups on the side table in their room. 

*

The road they're travelling is a long, grey, straight strip of asphalt. Turning his head, he sees his brother dozing, slumped against the door with his head tilted against the window. The radio's on low and Dean's mind wanders, revisiting his dream. It was not the usual Dean Winchester dream: there were no naked women, monsters, or hell. No-one died, nothing attacked him, and for a moment he wonders where the images of rose petals came from, why they invaded his subconscious in such a delicious way in the first place. And then he remembers. 

Yesterday morning, before the day really got started, he had driven past a house on a side street. It was a normal enough house, painted in olive green with white windows and woodwork, on a normal enough street. Whoever lived there clearly had a passion for gardening. He'd stopped at a Stop sign on the corner, and the bright colours of the plants and flowers in the garden had made him smile in spite of himself. It had been early, and the world was still fresh from the coolness of the night before. It was sunny but not yet hot, and the air was clean and felt good in his lungs. What had made him take a second look, though, had been the climbing roses around the house's font porch. 

They were in full bloom, plump and luxuriant with the weight of their blossoming, and the most perfect shade of dusky pink. He knew that if he'd been able to touch their silken petals, they would have been soft and slightly damp with morning dew, and if he had been able to bury his nose in one of them, he would have smelled goodness, innocence, and the fresh scent of summer. Dean's not really a flower person - they don't figure heavily in his life of hunting things that go bump in the night - but his mother loved them, and he's old enough to remember her joy in their textures and colours, and how she used to talk to their next-door neighbours about the garden that they tended so carefully. They always had roses in yellows and reds and oranges, sometimes even white ones. The yellow ones were his mother's favourite and if the neighbours were in a good mood she might come home with some to put in a vase on their kitchen table. 

The pink ones that trailed around the house's trellis had left him slightly perplexed though. He knew how they'd smell and how they'd feel but the colour had thrown him. He knew he'd seen that shade before but he couldn't think where and it tugged at the edges of his mind for some hours afterwards. He'd dismissed the question later in the day because, while the memory of his mother was precious and he couldn't think why else the colour had tugged at his heartstrings so much, he had other concerns. 

The feeling revisits him now though as he shifts slightly on the Impala's front bench to ease an ache in his back and he sighs because, really, next thing you know, he'll be raiding Sam's poetry collection and offering to braid his brother's hair. 

*

Sam's elbow deep in a huge bowl of rabbit food, and Dean's on his third slice of apple pie. They've been home for thirty-six hours and the plan, if there is one, is to just chill for the rest of the week; they've earned a little R&R. Dean had thrown all his dirty clothes in the washing machine when they got home, and had soaked for almost an hour in one of the bunker's giant tubs having shamelessly raided Sam's bath salt collection first, before crawling into his bed with little moans of happiness and crashing out for twelve hours straight. 

He's given his Baby a complete overhaul and valet, they've checked and cleaned all their tools and weapons, and today into tomorrow they're embarking on a marathon Netflix spree. There's beer in the fridge, and a stack of food, and there's nowhere they've gotta be for the next few days. It's as good as it gets as far as Dean can tell. The coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles and chip packets, and there's a Dean-shaped dent in the couch which he's going to lovingly improve upon for the next few hours until his eyes can't stay open any more.

For once, he doesn't argue about what Sammy chooses to watch - he's too content to care, buzzing gently on the beer and sugar in his system. He had the rose dream again last night and woke up feeling like most of the knots had worked themselves out of his muscles, and for a brief period, out of his brain. He'd wondered about the pink thing again earlier when he was polishing Baby's front windshield but even the rythymic circular motions of the chamois on her glass didn't help him to find the connection between the climbing roses and whatever caused the feeling of déja vú he'd experienced in seeing them. It's hardly a life or death question so he's not going to freak out about it. He'll find the answer eventually, he's sure. 

*

The smell of coffee's just starting to wend its way around the kitchen when Dean hears the fluttery sound of Cas' arrival. It's just past five-thirty in the morning and Dean had woken up after his - sadly - customary four hours to find that a couple of days resting wasn't especially conducive to sleeping late. He'd headed to the kitchen with his laptop for coffee and breakfast, and here he was. And, apparently, now here Cas was too. 

"Hello Dean."

His angelic friend looks tired: there are dark circles under his eyes, and the air of helplessness that Dean heard on the phone the other night is visble in the set of his shoulders. 

"Cas! You're just in time for breakfast; come sit down with me," Dean says, habit kicking in even though he knows Cas doesn't need breakfast. 

He grabs two mugs, two bowls and the cereal box, before fetching the coffee and milk. 

"Come on!" he says, pushing Cas into a seat. 

The angel takes some coffee but point blank refuses cereal, forgetting as he so often does that the coffee is hot and burning his mouth before glaring at the mug that his long, elegant fingers are curled around. Dean stifles a chuckle, immediately contrite as the glare is transferred to him. 

"Sorry, Cas, I'm sorry. So whatcha been doing? Any new leads?" 

*

Dean doesn't notice that morning has changed to afternoon has changed to night. He's sitting on the floor in his room, leaning his back against the wall, and his face is pale under his tanned freckles. He's been sitting there for hours, unseeing and alone, unaware of his surroundings. 

Sam called through the door earlier that he and Cas were heading out but Dean has no idea when that happened or when they'll be back. They didn't push him to come with him when he didn't answer, and he wouldn't have gone anyway. Not today. Tomorrow he'll deal, today he's going to stay here because if he stays here and doesn't move, he can pretend nothing has changed. 

He can pretend that he didn't see what he saw earlier, and that if he didn't see what he saw earlier, he won't have to change his ideas about who Dean Winchester is, or how Dean Winchester feels, or how Dean Winchester's subconscious is intent on fucking with him. 

Because this morning, when Cas was telling Dean about his investigations over the last few weeks, Dean's eyes had strayed over his friend's face, taking in the messed up hair and the intensely blue eyes like summmer seas, and had settled, unthinkingly, on his moving lips. And Dean had felt his skin flush from head to toe because it hit him like a tonne of bricks just where he had seen that shade of pink before, and damn it if it wasn't right here talking to him. 

And Dean might not have been to university like Sammy, and he might not have read up on Freud but he was pretty sure that he was in trouble. So he's going to stay here, and avoid Sam and Cas like the plague until he can get his head round this or bury it so deep that he doesn't have to think about it again. Denial might well be his middle name, he's certainly had enough practice in his life, and that's OK. 

He stirs himself enough to dig out the emergency bottle of Jack that's in the bottom of his chest of drawers and sets to drinking away the brain cells that know the colour of rose petals and Cas' lips.

*

Dean dreams. He dreams of flying above a blue ocean in a blue sky - the blues are so incrediibly bright and clear - and in his flight, he is surrounded by velvety-soft rose petals.


End file.
